In the scorching summer of 1987, young, invincible and hungry for adventure, I left my cloistered life at the University of Sydney to hitchhike to Darwin. I wanted to discover the “real” Australia, that classless utopia of rugged, self-made blokes in the Foster’s ads; the quixotic outback of explorers and mavericks celebrated by Xavier Herbert and Patrick White. Hitchhiking for art was a masculine pursuit, mythologised by Jack Kerouac and the beatniks. I wanted to update their 60s machismo with some brazenly female 80s cool. I would document my 8,000km trip, return to Sydney unscathed, and write a novel. Or so I thought.
My companion, Andrew Peisley, and I hit the highway at Lithgow, armed with a tarp, seven books and a guitar. We’d survive on Peisley’s dole cheque and busk for counter-meals in pubs along the way. We agreed to remain platonic, accept every lift that got us closer to Darwin, and never split up. Four days in, at a Cunnamulla roadhouse, our rules imploded. I was kidnapped by truckies. Four of them, driving two road trains in convoy. They couldn’t fit us both in one truck so they offered to take me in the first and Peisley in the second. I climbed, just as Kerouac would, into the first rig and we drove off. But when Peisley approached the second truck, the driver slammed the door in his face.
